


Atonement and Repentance

by metu



Category: Inazuma Eleven, Inazuma Eleven GO
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Read, The power of friendship, also i wrote this while being mentally ill sorry about that, minor relationships are fudou/kazemaru and aki/natsumi, told in convoluted ways because im me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metu/pseuds/metu
Summary: After the Fifth Sector falls, Gouenji Shuuya has amends to make and feelings to sort. Thankfully, he also has friends.
Relationships: Endou Mamoru/Gouenji Shuuya, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	Atonement and Repentance

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you'll be able to find something that makes sense in these 11k words of pure madness

> _“Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”_
> 
> – Camus, Albert. _The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays,_ translated by Justin O'Brien, 1991. Originally published as _Le Mythe de Sisyphe,_ 1942.

  
  
  


**I**

  
  
  


"I hope you'll forgive me," he says, his breath shouldn't feel so drawn and crisp but the two steps they've taken outside took everything out of him.

Endou looks at him with very big eyes and the face of someone who wants to say a lot of things but doesn't know where to begin, he has dark circles and there are slight wrinkles forming at the sides of his mouth, mostly laughter lines but Endou's only twenty-five, there shouldn't be wrinkles on someone that young.

"There's nothing to forgive," he turns away, looks at the starlit city beneath them and Shuuya knows he's lying, to him, to himself and to both of them because they desperately need to feel better about this enormous thing that has fallen on them without any ominous foretelling or warning.

"Still, I'm sorry," Shuuya desperately needs to hear Endou say he'll accept his excuses, that he understands.

The worst part, Shuuya knows, is that Endou does: he understands him, he understands why he did that, he knows and has never stopped knowing him. Endou has only ever offered kindness that runs deep and Shuuya is left with the uneasy weight of the guilt of having to accept something he’s sure he doesn’t deserve.

"I said, all is fine," Endou stops in the middle of the sentence, "I should go back, now, Natsumi is probably waiting for me," he turns and raises an arm, it feels like an axe coming down to chop his neck in half, lays his hand on Shuuya's shoulder and it hangs heavily, a sword knighting him in the name of renowned friendships and smouldering summers spent laying in the same bed wishing for something else, Shuuya, enjoying each other presence, Endou.

Shuuya also understand, Kidou told him not to be surprised if Natsumi comes up in their conversations, they’re still figuring things out and after all they were together for so long it must feel weird not to try to mend their broken relationship, if anything but for a sense of comfort Shuuya knows he disrupted in the first place. Shuuya looked at him with worried eyes, Kidou doesn’t hold any kind of information to himself if he thinks it’s needed, in his hands it's a double edged blade.

“Alright, I’ll see you soon, then,” Shuuya wills his voice not to crack, lifts his hand in a two finger salute and Endou nods, in the distance a cat hisses through the night and Shuuya takes personal offence in the ancient, errant way his brain shutters before Endou is out of his peripheral vision.

He stands for a while, until inevitably his sister calls and he has to answer, _where are you,_ I’m at the overlook, _when are you coming home_ , now.

  
  
  


**II**

  
  
  


Yuuka has got into the habit of smoking, she tried to hide it the first few months, more for the thrill of having secrets than genuine worry. Shuuya told her he didn’t really care unless she started eating through packets per day like a decadent poet and she relented in saying she hates the smell of tobacco and it’ll last only one rebellious phase, she’s sure. Shuuya tried not to smile at the thought of a self-aware wayward teenager, but he guesses smoking at least is not sneaking out at night, at least is not shouting matches about the future and personal choices. She’s throwing the butt of a cigarette away when he parks in front of their building, the elevator ride is silent and Shuuya only cracks his neck in anticipation.

Yuuka grew up to be extremely different from him, she looks like a woman and yet she’s only seventeen and her opinions are far sounder than they should be, Shuuya remembers being her age and only caring about soccer and boys, often the pernicious combination of the two.

Over dinner, she asks, “What will you do, now?”

Shuuya swallows around the salmon and folds his hand over his lap, she means it literally, Yuuka talks without metaphors and rarely has time to think about anything that isn’t the tangent and the empirical, when and not how, what and not why, Shuuya, on the other hand, craves maieutic questions and has to reflect before answering.

“Whatever I can,” he picks up the chopsticks and the bowl of rice, Gouenji blood means they’d both rather speak in silences than articulate thoughts that rarely make sense to anyone else; it also means being terribly stubborn and prone to melancholic moods that favor no one, a quiet dinner is as close as a forty people party in their house.

“I see, what about Endou?” the word brother almost slips in there, Endou has always been terribly fond of her.

“What about him?”

When they were children and they still ate with their father, speaking wasn’t allowed during meals unless prompted by the higher ranks, a long table and only four people to occupy it, then three and by the time Yuuka got injured Shuuya didn’t bother eating with his father anymore. Now their table is smaller, not tiny but if he reached out with his fingers he would be able to touch Yuuka’s glass, it’s odd and reinvigorating at the same time.

“Don’t be obtuse,” she doesn’t look at him, picking a thread from the loose shirt she’s wearing, Shuuya should perhaps feel offended but Yuuka is right.

“If he wants me around I’ll be around, if he doesn’t, I’m sure Hibiki will have an offering, already.”

It isn’t like he’s useless, Shuuya at least has the reassuring guarantee that his presence is needed whether on the field or behind a desk, Yuuka cocks her head to the side.

“I thought you hated him.”

“Hate is a big word.”

“Dislike, then,” her plate is empty and she sips the water like a bird from a fountain, there are vitamins laying on the table she insists on taking because the cold season is close and she has mock exams she can’t miss.

Shuuya lets out a deep breath, he doesn’t think he can afford the right to stay true to his morals when five years of his life have been a dedicated lie, “Money does not stink and all of that, enough, tell me about your day.”

Yuuka huffs, she offers a bland tale about classmates and complains about her incompetent English teacher while rebraiding her hair and Shuuya occasionally offers some remarks, _that’s awful_ , a laugh, _if you need a tutor_.

“Also,” she’s a bit more somber, the expression sits well enough on her face that if Shuuya wasn't her brother he wouldn’t have been able to discern the frown from her normal, tranquil gaze, he sits upright, readies his shoulder like she’s about to hit him.

“I fear our poor, old father won’t be meeting any son-in-law from my part.”

“That’s an uncanny way of coming out to me.”

“It was either this or a big cake with the lesbian flag on it and I know you hate store-bought cakes, a shame, really,” she ties her braids and challenges him, setting her jaw, she's more nervous than she looks.

Shuuya didn’t want to assume, but Yuuka’s too smart for her own good sometimes, he thinks she was trying to find the perfect chance while her brother was simply waiting for the rock to drop in the valley, _serves me right_ he thinks.

“Well, if you knew I was already... _aware_ , what do you want me to say?” a small smile sits on his face, they have long finished eating but they prefer talking over the dining table, the whole concept of repossession of starving traditions is very close to them and dinner time seems like the perfect occasion to exorcise old ghosts.

“I don’t know, maybe welcome to the club, or a handshake,” she throws him an askew look, “I just wanted to– tell you.”

“And I’m happy you did,” Shuuya struggles a bit with understanding the situation, Yuuka always seems so sure in herself he’s only glad she still tells him these things, “I’m– I know it’s difficult with an older brother, but if you need anything–

“I know,” she gets up and takes the plates and bowls with her, Shuuya doesn’t have hired help, only seldomly calls someone to clean the apartment since he rarely is there.

“But I trust you, because you have always been a good brother. A good person,” Shuuya is about to reply, but she continues, “And I'm sure he knows that, too.”

  
  
  


**III**

  
  
  


Working from the top, while playing the double agent, makes everything a little bit more difficult, Shuuya is glad Toramaru regards him as highly as he does or he would have felt completely alone save for the few children he was able to get in contact with. Taiyou sits at the end of the chair, like he's about to jump, busy telling him stories Shuuya is sure are not even half true.

The hospital gown is too big on him and he swings his legs. In these moments Shuuya is reminded once again that he's only eleven, a nasty feeling festering on the meat of his heart like a feral dog clings to a dry bone.

"Doctor told me you'll be discharged in a few months," _again_ he wants to reprimand, but Taiyou beams at him before he can and Shuuya crosses his legs, waiting for the answer, he is a pushover, always has been.

"Yeah, yeah, for Christmas," Taiyou is bright even though he'd have all the reason not to be, he was going to die until he wasn’t anymore, Shuuya feels vile for his selfishness.

"Do you need anything? For school?"

Taiyou's hands are trapped underneath his body, he wiggles like a fish in the water while he thinks it over, there's a family waiting outside and the smell of sanitiser permeates every surface, Shuuya understandably never liked hospitals and empty rooms, Taiyou detests them even more.

"No, I still have the stuff you gave me, and the school has dorms, so," he shrugs.

He seems more carefree, but preteens always have this merry aura to their faces even when they aren’t happy, Shuuya remembers Fubuki, acidic spit in his throat, he remembers Someoka and Ichinose, more than anything else, and the one thing that wills you to survive when everything you had left you. Taiyou is cheerful but Shuuya fears it’s just one of his obsessive heroics, why do middle schooler all act this way, he wonders, not a lot of time has passed but Shuuya thinks it all boils down to the tea-ceremony of repetitive mistakes adults seem to love to partake in.

“Well, alright, I’ll visit you, next time I’ll bring you a gift, for Christmas.”

Taiyou beams, an impish grin on his mouth, “I hope it’s not books.”

Shuuya gets up the moment Fuyuka comes into the room with a tray, a pack of biscuits and a bottle of water, he bids her goodbye, she’s very pretty. Meanly he asks himself if she felt the same gnawing thing at the hollow of her throat when Endou and Natsumi spoke of marriage, almost wishing she had. Shuuya builds mirroring walls that conceal his boiling blood but at the end of the day all that remains in his hands are the spoils of an already empty city, it smells of burning ashes and cold fingers begging him not to go.

Shuuya tastes iron in his gums, he closes the door behind him, and hears Fuyuka greet Taiyou.

Toramaru waits outside, smart suit and leather gloves, he looks at him with a certain gravitas that doesn’t suit his everlasting young face.

“Is something the matter?”

“Hibiki wants to talk to you,” he says, falling into place behind him, he insists on walking two steps in the sidelines, a soldier in the trenches waiting for the shells to drop, Shuuya soon realised that asking him to stop pretending to be an English spy was useless and counterproductive, Toramaru got to play around while Shuuya created this dangerous mist around him that hid his secrets well enough.

“What for?”

Toramaru doesn’t shrug but his steps falter, “He– he didn’t say.”

Shuuya exhales, “Alright," he tosses him his keys "Start the car for me, will you?"

  
  
  


**IV**

  
  
  


"Orange doesn't suit you," there’s a glass between them and Shuuya tries to look everywhere but in Senguuji’s eyes, he has a complacent smile like Shuuya is the rat under his paws, the ride to the penitentiary was short, in self-appointed silence Toramaru didn’t dare to break; Shuuya now wishes Hibiki could have at least asked with a week notice.

“I wanted to see you,” Senguuji says and it feels dirty. Weren’t for Hibiki's request to listen, Shuuya would already be on his merry way out.

Toramaru unwillingly left at the entrance. He sits composed, if not slouching, just enough to remind himself that Senguuji and his fucked up morals aren’t a pestilence anymore.

Saying he’s dreading every single second of this forced interaction is tantamount to slapping a baby in the face in front of their mother and pretending to be the one who got hurt, because not only he hates Senguuji’s face in his, there is an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach rising with every creak of the uncomfortable chair underneath his body.

“And I’m here to be seen, what do you want?”

“I need a favour. For old times’ sake.”

Shuuya doesn’t like to think about the implications of accepting, he licks his lips and shifts on the plastic chair of the penitentiary, he knows that four walls and titanium bars don’t really hold up against money and a long string of court calls with successful lawyers, but the simple thought of being _safe_ for a while blooms under the concrete.

“What makes you think you’re in the position to ask for a favour?”

“Oh, Shuuji,” he says the word like it’s a vicious thing, it’s not even his real name and yet he still feels the strings pulled, “Weren’t our dreams enough?”

 _Your_ dreams, Shuuya thinks, rancor building beneath the surface, there are too many problems with talking to him so soon, what’s left of before is little and hidden in a secluded space inside a deep chamber of his heart, for him to poke at whenever his guilt feels hungry enough to be bothered, Senguji looks confident enough that Shuuya can’t retort with anything but a hardened glare.

“And if I refuse?”

“You won’t,” Senguuji crawls forth like a very fat vermin begging to be spared from imminent death, even though it wouldn’t have survived the night in the first place. Shuuya gulps down the electric tension building underneath his skin, his cheeks feel tight and there’s a vitriolic taste in the back of his throat, threatening to spill.

“If you’re so sure, then.”

“It’s about my son.”

Shuuya hates the fact that he was right.

  
  
  


**V**

  
  
  


“I never would’ve thought the great Gouenji would come asking for _my_ help,” Fudou sits all gangled, his legs are thrown one over the other, his torso bent in the shape of a weird letter to look at Shuuya and the contiguity of his thin eyebrows and the choppy bangs he’s cut himself ever since high school make it difficult to think him as his peer, he really looks too young to be in his own house, smell of citrus and lavender he knows is Kazemaru’s shampoo, a bad lit kitchen that serves two people who never learnt how to cook, one bedroom.

Shuuya has been here before, but the circumstances are what they are, so he accepts Fudou’s thrown-away hospitality and shuts up.

Yamato is standing uncomfortably beside him, Shuuya remembers his father’s influence, he wonders if he could have done more, but he’s not a shield and Yamato didn’t cry when the jury sentenced his father, didn’t even show up at the hearing. Now, he’s biting the meat off his lip, there are at least fifty other kids around that don’t have the luck of being Senguuji’s son, Shuuya dryly suffocates the thought under different concerns, masks away the rabbit beating of his heart.

“Kidou put me through, said you’d be elated.”

“Did he say _elated_?”

“He’s Kidou, can you please answer the question?”

Fudou nods towards Yamato, “What’s his opinion?”

Yamato’s eyes grow two sizes, he steps back like he didn’t expect to be interrogated, only a passive observer, like this didn’t involve him and only him, he looks at Shuuya and within a horrendous moment that seems to last decades spent doubting and hoping, he realises Yamato is waiting for the permission to speak.

“Go on,” Shuuya loathes the knowing look Fudou throws at him.

“I love football,” he starts, Fudou snorts.

“Don’t we all, kiddo? Do you _want_ to play the real thing or you prefer your daddy’s way?”

Yamato coils on himself, the colour drains from his face like he flushed steeped tea in the sink, at the mention of his father his jaw sets, he stands taller, and can’t Shuuya understand him, under the spotlight, in front of two adults that for the first time in his life are asking what he is thinking, Shuuya is back in the principal’s office one Friday afternoon discussing his impending, metaphysical death.

“I believe my father had the best intentions–

“Really?–

“ _However_ ,” he raises his voice, Fudou is already sold, he probably was when Shuuya called last week to tell him about Yamato, Fudou Akio is a lot of thing, most of all annoying and smitten in the way he always brags about Ichirouta, but he’s not a bad person and he has the preternatural propensity to attract traumatised kids like he’s a fucking candy shop.

“I never had the chance to play football for myself, I want that. I want to know what it’s like.”

Fudou’s mouth stretches across his face, his eyes crinkle at the sides and the hair at the back of his neck shifts when he shakes his head in a fond smile, the one Shuuya knows to be genuine, he’s seen him smiling like this very few times, once at Kariya because they’re very much the same person inside containers of different sizes, now Yamato has his fists at his side and he’s swaying a bit almost as if the force he put in the thought was a gust of wind.

“Well, shit,” Fudou stands up, Shuuya is fundamentally against swearing in front of children, even though locker room talk is not as unpolluted as the parents like to think, but he couldn’t agree more.

Yamato is tall, or probably it’s just Fudou that is terribly short for a man of twenty-four, and one in front of the other Shuuya wouldn’t be able to guess who was the child, whether because Yamato has had the same experiences only a man triple his age would have had or because Fudou, again, just is like that.

“Welcome to the team, boy.”

They send Yamato home, Shuuya made sure whoever is the close relative he’s staying with isn’t a controlling psychopath like his father was and Fudou forces him to stay a little bit more, which Shuuya takes as direct order from Kazemaru himself because Fudou just isn’t the character to invite him to take a tea.

“Routa tells me you’ve been mopin’,” Fudou sits again in that contorted way of his and smiles, not really sardonically but the sentiment might as well be there.

“Did he, now.”

“Don’t act all superior, I’m not one for interventions but even I can’t stand the way you drag yourself around him.”

Shuuya knows that deep inside several layers of disturbed child, under the caustic nature and the glares, Fudou means well, it’s just that being on the receiving end of a lecture on being true to yourself given by him feels as absurd as trying to tear down a national organisation from the inside, which fits snugly in the shoebox of preposterous nonsense Shuuya decided to turn his life in, he guesses.

“If you’re here to tell me–

“I’m not here to tell you anything, Gouenji, I’m here as fucking living proof that people forgive each other for no apparent reason, I’m sure you think you’re acting all high and mighty but you’re just making yourself miserable.”

Shuuya’s lips are dry and he would like to be able to say the same of his eyes but the prickly sensation behind them is something he’s acquainted with and he would rather not cry in front of Fudou, out of all people.

They’re looking at each other and Shuuya feels even worse, because compared to most he’s had it easy. Perhaps it’s what bothers him the most, he’s a ruin and nothing substantial happened to him.

“Did Kazemaru also tell you this?”

Fudou barks a laugh, a deep _ha!_ that feels like he’s spat it from deep inside his thorax, “No,” he settles a bit more comfortably and the barbed wire behind Shuuya’s eyes detangles, “We have this thing in common, me and you, that we’re awfully stubborn bastards who couldn’t recognise something good even if it fell on our heads,” he scratches the joint of his thumb with the long nail of the index finger, “Honestly, I understand, but if I can live with my mistakes so can you.”

Shuuya straightens his legs and decides he must go home, take a shower and pretend that Fudou didn’t just make sense to him, in his ears.

“Thank you,” he says, “For everything. Tell me if Yamato– if _you_ and your team need anything.”

“Sure,” a shrug, “and you tell me if you decide to pull another stunt like that, mister Ishido.”

He snorts, at least Fudou is still Fudou.

  
  
  


**VI**

  
  
  


Endou comes to him after one month of treading into new broken-engagement-waters and first summer days spent with the kids at Raimon.

Shuuya is in the room he repurposed as office, there’s a scratchy, second-hand vinyl of enka music from the fifties playing and it’s really just supposed to be background noise to help him file reports over reports; Hiroto and Midorikawa have offered their mutual, disgustingly married support but Shuuya can be quite uncooperative when he wants to, probably the Gouenji’s curse and all those axioms and postulates that wring out the blood from his hands whenever he tries to forget what his surname is, so he’s doing all the work by himself, because he needs to be sure that the errors he made are solved by the same hands.

“This is, like, super old stuff,” Endou says, snooping over the record player.

He’s standing, arms crossed and dimples on his cheeks, to _check on him_ ; Shuuya has always been prone to get lost in his head, he refined the art and it’s not Kidou’s useful kind of machinations, it’s more vexations coming to rest on his neurons that keep him awake at night, Endou probably lives inside one of the universes Shuuya created for himself where they’re still best friends, they eat lunch at the same place and practice together until the sun bleeds away. He hasn’t plucked up the courage to open the doors that lead to other singularities, in which the word best friend takes another meaning.

“It’s relaxing,” Shuuya answers, even though it actually isn’t. Enka puts him in a melancholic mood only eighteenth century Russian waltzers are able to achieve.

“I was thinking, now that Kidou’s going to go back at Teikoku,” his hip collides with the side of Shuuya’s desk, it trembles under his weight, “We might need some help, so if you want, until something else shows up, you could stick around?”

Shuuya almost snaps the tendons of his neck, Endou has a nonchalant face but it’s obvious that it's important to him. He _wants_ Shuuya there, at Raimon, trusts him with the kids, and while rationally Shuuya knows he’s good with them, it doesn’t exactly feel fair: Shuuya left Kidou and Endou and the others on their own, he didn’t tell them anything and he’s pretty sure they all thought he left Japan for good after his twentieth birthday. Endou doesn’t care, that much is obvious, Shuuya thinks he’s the one who has to put some sense into his head, even if the mean bones in his body are telling him to take his hand, take his whole arm, too, when Endou is willing, God doesn’t stand a chance.

“Are you sure?”

Endou brushes his index finger on top of some documents, pretending to dust off some dirt, he sniffs and looks at Shuuya dead in the eyes, as if he expected the question.

“Of course I’m sure, I said it already, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t wear the engagement ring anymore, Endou smells of grass and sweat, if Shuuya focuses he can see the bruises on his tanned skin, the places where it hurts the most and where he had to put that awful smelling cream he insists on using even though there are other valid options that don’t stink like rotting trees. Shuuya is so gone, so much that he dares to hope.

“Well, that’s– I’d like it, yeah,” Shuuya's mouth stretches, his cheeks hurt, unconsciously pulling away the few short hair from his face, Endou’s face lights up, he dips his body towards him, his hands planted on the dark surface of the mahogany desk of his office.

“That’s great, because I already told the kids you’d coach with me, so.”

It’s typical of him, but he figures Endou had every reason to be sure of himself and of Shuuya’s ultimate decision.

Endou stands up again, his back is straight and his shoulders look like he did years of nothing but swimming, Shuuya stabs his palm with his nails to keep his mouth from overspilling.

“When do you have practice, next?”

“This afternoon, Raimon is closed so we’ll go by the river, it’ll be nice.”

Shuuya nods, says _I’ll be there_ and Endou smiles, as if he just discovered the secret compendium of everything good and nice in the world, which accidentally also looks like Shuuya, days of grease in his hair barely masked by the low pony-tail and comfortable tracksuit pants that are actually his pyjamas.

“Cool! Great, I’ll wait for you.”

He’s sure the expression on his face must be a weird combination of nauseous joy and agonising fear, Endou is still close to him, Shuuya was right: he does smell of the weird analgesic ointment he slathers himself in, which must mean that he practiced before, and knowing Endou ( _Do I know him, still?_ he thinks, _can I pretend to know him?_ ) it’s not a surprising piece of information.

Shuuya signs another recompensation check, all he’s been doing lately is calling different schools, making in-person appointments and dreading the fact that he will actually be needing Hiroto’s help, even just for a push, and Endou is still there, standing, _waiting_.

Endou’s always waiting, just not in the static sense of the word, he waits and runs across the field, he deciphers decades-old books and waits for people to make sense of them, he waits and tugs you around to show you that with a bit of elbow grease, that usually turns out to be a lot of elbow grease under everyone else’s standards, the thing you’ve been waiting for magically appeared in front of you overnight, he makes it seem so easy. It works as a distraction, Endou said to him, the gears of the universe ingraining in their perfect-fitting spots as you slave away your worries. He didn’t put it in those terms, exactly, but Shuuya holds himself accountable for every paraphrase of Endou’s orations.

“Sure,” Shuuya doesn’t lift his eyes anymore, or he would force Endou to stay there for tea, or to catch up.

Endou makes an affirming noise and starts walking to the half closed door, Shuuya doesn’t like to completely isolate himself and a door serves as a metaphor as any other barrier could so he leaves it open, just a sliver, enough that he can see Toramaru or Yuuka if they pass in the corridor.

“Don’t be late!” he says, before going outside. Shuuya snorts at the words.

  
  
  


**VII**

  
  
  


Shuuya vividly remembers one tanka by Yosano Akiko, he knows it by memory and more than memory by heart, the short collection sits on his bedside table along with several other books he likes to keep close, for a sense of internal peace and to remind him that the world can be good. The poem says, and whenever he thinks about it he brings his fingers, pointer and middle, to his lips, sideways so that he covers them completely, to hold it inside and savour it: _let love burn, at its best_ , Shuuya pinches his lower lip with his thumb and the index finger, lays flat the third on the upper, _as it blazes_ , when the lower phrase begins he usually shifts his head forward, when he had shorter hair and used to gel it every day it didn’t really made sense to try and hide his face with it, but now that it’s longer, he gets a sense of privacy from the motion. _This is how I feel,_ Shuuya’s lips now are partly open.

“In the parting spring,” he lets out, a murmur.

“What?”

Shuuya takes off his hand, lays it on his lap and shakes his shoulders a bit, “Are the kids alright?”

Endou is hunched over the table, he kind of looks like a bear, if bears were considerably less muscular and played football, there are too many slices of beef over his rice so at least he got the carnivorous part down correctly. He nods, shoveling in piece of meat after piece of meat, the occasional chug of beer (Endou doesn’t really drink, unless Tobitaka offers it) to avoid choking on the meal.

“Yeah! They’re all pumped up for the next season, we’ll be starting soon,” his hands are busy picking the rice but his eyes are focused on him, he smiles, “They all miss you, by the way, I wish you could come more often.”

 _I_ _wish_ he says, Shuuya’s palms are clammy and he feels like a lady with the vapours just because Endou likes having him around, _this wasn't groundbreaking_ , he says to himself, he knows that Endou enjoys his presence, as much as Shuuya wishes he could be more stern with him.

It’s a minimal problem, not even a problem for everyone that isn't Shuuya, really; everybody around him seems to have already forgiven him, out of the goodness of their heart and probably because he was doing the _right_ thing, which arguably and ultimately is true, it’s just that Shuuya has made one too many faux paux, has stepped on too many feet and navigated around silences without explaining anything to anyone, and the permanent Gouenji namesake forbids him from leaving the matter to the past.

“It’s just that– my new job.”

“Yeah, I guess you must be really busy,” Endou seems lost in thought, it’s the middle of September but it feels like March.

Shuuya finishes his ramen before the broth turns completely cold and Tobitaka comes in, swiping his bowl from under his nose, leaving a plate with some colourful dango with a wink. Endou has a heaping bowl that seems like it’s never ending, the more he eats the more appears underneath.

“Hey, why don’t you come to mine next weekend and we have a friendly game, huh?” he slaps his hand on the table, pointing the chopsticks at him, “Someoka is back in Japan, so is Kabeyama, we can have a little reunion? Can you ask Toramaru?”

He turns to Tobitaka, waves his hand beckoning him closer.

“I won’t give you a freebie this time, Endou, you’ll ruin my business,” he seems exasperated but in a cheerful, affectionate way.

“This ain’t about that, c’mon, are you free next weekend?”

“I’m always working,” he deadpans, “but we close early on Saturdays, what about it?”

“Me and Gouenji,” Endou says, even though Shuuya had no part in this, but it’s always me and Gouenji, it’s always me and someone else, Endou doesn’t share the spotlight because it’s impossible to be as bright as him, but he ignites his surroundings, so that everyone that’s with him has a chance to be seen, “We were thinking of a little reunion, you’d like in?”

Tobitaka smiles, shrugs one shoulder, “Sure, though don’t count on me for _free_ food.”

Endou doesn’t seem bothered, “Fudou’ll think about it.”

“The only thing Fudou knows how to do is peel daikons.”

“No, no! He learnt how to make pasta,” Endou has a big exclamation point on his face, Shuuya laughs through his nose, (and were he more attentive he would’ve noticed Endou turn to him, to see him smile, just for a brief second) because the concept of Fudou cooking is quite absurd even though Kazemaru is even worse in the kitchen and they have to feed themselves in one way or another.

“Ah well,” Tobitaka doesn’t seem exactly amazed by this, “if he knows how to make _pasta_ ,” he finishes, a hand on his hip, which means he’ll bring free food if anything only to compare his own noodles to Fudou’s alleged pasta making skills.

“Well! Then you’re coming?”

“I’m coming, yeah, yeah, and _you_ are paying,”

Endou grins, a big toothy one that would make all the dentists in Japan proud, and Tobitaka flicks him on the shoulder before nodding his head to Shuuya and returning behind the counter, it's not rush hour but customers still enter the Rairaiken.

"This one's on me," Shuuya says, interrupting his silence, Endou is about to complain when he continues, "Really, besides you have to get back to the kids," he reminds him.

Endou checks his wristwatch, it's his grandpa's, not the only thing he got from him, but one of the few not football related and something he started wearing in lieu of his engagement ring: they serve the same purpose, at the end of the day, both taken away before starting practice, both a reminder of something. Both stupidly expensive, if you ask Shuuya, but that might just be him becoming petty over material possessions.

"Ah, shoot," it's funny coming out of Endou's mouth, mock-swear-words he uses in front of children that probably already know the real deal, but Endou never swore in the first place, neither did Kidou and almost because of some kind of retroactive osmosis Shuuya never did, too.

"I owe you," Endou says, standing up and leaving a half empty bowl of rice in front of him, "You can take the leftovers if you want, I'll text you for the weekend, okay?" everything is in a rush, he can speak more words per minute than most people can, Shuuya can't help but smile fondly, nodding at his back already through the door.

Shuuya eats his dango, while Tobitaka serves one person at the counter and gestures to someone in the back to step in for him.

"So," he says, using the excuse of putting the rice in a box for Shuuya to take home, "How are we faring on the Endou front?"

Shuuya could pretend to be surprised by Tobitaka remarks, but it would mean fooling them both and he's tired of lying.

"Are you conspiring?"

"Oh please," Tobitaka slows down his movements, "if I were conspiring I would be saying this to Endou, too, 'sides Toramaru talks a lot, I’m more updated than most."

"Ah."

"Don't worry, I told you, I don't meddle with these things, and I'm not Kidou so all I can do is give you the normal kind of advice."

"Which is?"

"Talk to him," the rice sits in a box, Tobitaka takes Endou's place in front of him, he's really grown to be a handsome man, he’s still intimidating in the way ex castaway satellites are, but he’s rounded the edges, brightened the corners, and Shuuya likes him more than he ever liked Hibiki so visiting him feels cathartic.

“People always say this,” Shuuya begins, joining his hands in front of him, a diplomat, “and I’m not disagreeing, but it’s never just that straightforward.”

Tobitaka underwent the same, if a bit less gruelling and gruesome, unnerving labour of having to make amends with the things he did, of having to witness Endou Mamoru and his task force of good feelings sticking themselves to the edges of your shirt and never letting go, no matter how much you shake and complain.

“Again, I’m not Kidou,” Tobitaka shrugs, there are other three people in the ramen shop and they’re all busy talking with each other, it’s as much privacy as Shuuya gets on a daily basis, “But it really is that simple, you have to stop planning _kilometres_ ahead just to shut down the possibility of confessing to him only because of something that _could_ happen. A lot of things can happen, it’s not a valid excuse.”

It shouldn’t make sense, “You’re underselling your advice.”

“And you’re underestimating Endou.”

“He– Natsumi and–

“Natsumi is happy and in a relationship herself, now, and I doubt she’ll be bothered by her _ex_ fiancé of six months deciding he wants the same.”

Shuuya brings one hand to his face, drags his skin from the forehead down to the middle of his cheeks and pinches hard, just under the bones, enough to hurt the stress away. Tobitaka has a leveling voice, he wants to be mad at him, most of all wants to be mad at Toramaru who gets talkative when he’s hungry and has definitely told Tobitaka things he shouldn’t even have known himself.

“I’m not trying to force you into anything,” he gets closer, elbows firmly planted on the side of the tiny table, the towel he usually wraps around his head sits on his wide shoulders, “Just, don’t you think it’s about time you do things for yourself, too?”

“It feels like I’ve been doing nothing but that.”

“That’s because you're as thick as a mule, mate, just accept the fact that people don’t think of you as the evil grandmaster you pretended to be and move on,” Tobitaka takes a swing from Endou’s beer, “Shit, hearing you talk it almost seems like you want them to lock you up with that Senguuji guy.”

“It’s– don’t you think it’s weird?”

“I was the leader of a pack of feral children when I was eleven, I’ve seen weirder things, and before you say something about how it’s _different_ ,” he raises one hand, shoves the rice in his direction, “I don’t care, go talk to him, if you ever tire of feeling miserable, or don’t, if you like to paddle in it, but you should take a stance before someone else who isn’t as discreet as me decides to step in.”

Tobitaka stands up, crosses his arms in front of his chest, he looks lankier than what he used to be, his cheeks are slimmer and he doesn’t really play football anymore but the muscles are still there, Shuuya nods.

“I’ll see you next weekend.”

When Tobitaka turns to return to work, something that he also ought to do, Shuuya brings two fingers to his lips. Perhaps it’s about time he collects the ashes he left laying around for too long.

  
  
  


**VIII**

  
  
  


When he plays football, Shuuya remembers that he’s made of blood and muscles, it’s something his father used to tell him, part of their family motto, until everything went downhill and football became a distraction: _you are blood before you are body_ , he said it while combing his hair back, busy retelling a story about his grandpa and some war Shuuya didn’t care for.

At the time, it didn’t make a lot of sense (and in reality he still fails to see the actual meaning, now). He was five and the philosophical proclivities of his father didn’t interest him as much as kicking around a ball did, except that in this moment, as Tachimukai fails to block his shot, he kind of makes up for it.

There must be something there, that links blood and soul and detaches him from the rest of the body, and compels him to listen twice to his father’s words, Shuuya throws his arm over Someoka, who grew so tall in the years he spent abroad, and bumps their fists in celebration. He might be soul before he’s body, but the satisfying burn of his lungs when Endou throws him a thumbs up fails to prove his father’s theory.

“Nice one,” says Fubuki, jogging past him, just as Haruna blows her whistle and the game sets.

They didn’t win, but it never was about victory, so they restart, ignoring the plea of their muscles, their stamina isn’t the one of a teenager, anymore, but it doesn’t matter as much when they’re on the field again, together. Endou calls his name, once, when it’s clear that they’ll lose again and he wants to risk it all, because _friendly_ doesn’t mean he won’t put his everything, being and spirit and blood and body, into it.

Shuuya curses under his breath, starts running faster across the field as Endou charges him, dribbling and avoiding the defenders, leaving the net to Kabeyama who looks a bit lost but Shuuya knows, has known since the moment Endou’s eyes twinkled in that manic way they get when he’s about to do something reckless. They shoot their goal, the synchronicity of their breath shatters Shuuya’s ears and they lose, again, but Endou collapses on top of him a few metres from the makeshift poles they made with chairs and a long elastic and it feels _good_ , to laugh with him, even after a loss.

“Man,” Endou starts, he rolls over, arm trapped under Shuuya’s head, it might be the sweat trickling down his hair, but he swears he feels Endou’s gloved fingers contract in his hair, petting him.

“Yeah,” Shuuya says, he gets up, freeing Endou who is still looking at him, doe eyed.

This is what he loves more about Endou, he thinks, the short instants of simple contemplation when nothing exists outside of them, egg-thin layer of dust sheltering from the outside, Shuuya's breath shutters.

People have called Endou brash, childish, naïve, mostly intended as awkwardly masked insults, Shuuya is aware, though, of how thoughtful he can be, he's grown into a wonderful man.

Their eyes lock in silence, in that moment the suppurating malady of his heart and the quiet boiling of the lactic acid piling up inside his muscle connect with the thrumming sound of their friends and Shuuya _understands_ being blood before body, it’s paradoxically juxtaposed in Endou’s eyes, who gets up because someone called him and Shuuya is sitting on the grass, and the giant boulder he has to push overhill every day becomes less heavy.

He gets up, tries to clean as much dirt as he can from his pants and walks over the fading shade of a tree, just on the limits of Endou’s garden.

Aki sits down next to him, if everybody is grime and drenched, she’s collected and smells like peppermint, even if she played for a bit in the first half.

She hands him a paper glass full of lemonade and doesn’t say anything but Shuuya has a feeling, the hint of heavy words present in the lacklustre talk bouncing far from the secluded spot he’s sitting in. They watch Endou for a while, bouncing a ball on his knees trying to break Kogure’s record, while the others observe him laying on the ground.

“It’s inevitable, isn’t it, the talk, I mean,” Shuuya toys with the rim of the paper glass, trying to unglue it.

Aki smiles at him, Shuuya thinks they, the wholeness of the team, owe her their lives, in the literal sense, she shouldered their worries and cared for them when no one else would, retroactively Shuuya asks himself just what were the adults thinking, letting an eleven year old girl take that kind of burden.

“We don’t have to, but I think it’d be better if we did.”

“You’re too nice.”

“I’m nice to you,” she levels, her hands in between her knees, khaki pants and light green jacket, Aki never had to try to look casually beautiful.

“If it helps,” she continues, “I was in your shoes, once,” the sun is beginning to set on the horizon, Tobitaka and Fudou, predictably, are having an odd cooking contest and they’re the only two detached from the group.

Shuuya knew that, Aki tends to wear her heart on her sleeve, and unlike himself she’s not afraid of getting hurt, or the fact is that she is, scared like anyone else would be scared, but she doesn’t let it become crippling, she feeds the fear and nurtures it until it turns into a less petrifying sentiment, like one would socialise a rabid cat on the verge of death, just to let them know about warmth and love before their last breath.

“Did you ever tell him?”

Aki looks at him out of the corner of her eyes, she’s watching Natsumi and Haruna talk with Kidou with a fond expression, “It’s funny, actually,” she begins with the tone of a mother who’s about to tell a story to her child, “I didn’t tell him because I thought I didn’t have a chance against you.”

Shuuya doesn’t say anything, he holds his breath for so long he starts to feel dizzy, so Aki continues, “I don’t want to be another person who tells you to just, to throw everything out and do it, I just want to remind you,” she turns now, her spine is bent in a gentle crescent moon and she’s tinier than him, Shuuya wants to hug her, “that I understand, and that you’re not alone.”

The pin drops, Natsumi, impeccable as ever, her hair freshly cut, comes to them with a heavier jacket folded in her arms, hands it to Aki who thanks her with a kiss on the lips, soft and barely there.

“I don’t want to interrupt your secret meeting,” she says, patting Aki’s arm after she’s put on the jacket, “but we’re about to eat and Kogure is already threatening everyone with hot sauce, so you better hurry up.”

“Ah, thank you,” she says, they both get up but Natsumi holds on his sleeve, Shuuya turns just in time to see her throw Aki a poignant look.

“I don’t know what she told you,” Natsumi says, and for a moment he’s grateful because he’s been subject to a lot of reasonable speeches these past months, he doesn’t think he’s ready to hear two of them in the same day, “but you should listen to her, I’m sure Aki is right.”

Natsumi links her elbow with his, compels him to walk towards the camping table they have set in the garden, barely big enough to hold them all, but they’ve always liked to be a little cramped, and Shuuya can’t help the blooming, mellow smile on his lips.

“Yeah, she usually is.”

  
  
  


**IX**

  
  
  


Shuuya dreams.

This comes to him with no surprises: dreaming, just like any other involuntary aspect of life, is an act he’s never thought too much of. Most of his dreams are meaningless and clear recollections of various things he did the previous days: cleaning, but on top of a mountain, having a phone call, but with someone who doesn’t talk, visiting Taiyou, but at an amusement park.

Some dreams, he remembers more accurately, which coincidentally are also the dreams he wants to forget the most: spraining his ankle, breaking his leg, Yuuka in a hospital bed, his mother’s funeral. When he wakes it’s always with some different rhythm of laboured breath and with hair sticking to his neck.

He sits up and crunches the blanket in his fists, he can’t translate the images so vivid in his mind to feelings, there is an abrasive sensation under his ribs so he throws his legs out of the bed and staggers to his bathroom, he doesn’t even bother turning the lights on.

He sits down on the cold ceramic of his bathtub and takes the showerhead, it almost slips two times before he can turn on the water, the hottest setting because Shuuya might dislike some part of who he is, but that doesn’t mean he hates himself so much that he’d willingly go through a cold shower, and collects his weary bones.

Knees to the chest, his left elbow, the one attached to the arm holding the showerhead, rests on them, the other limps at his side, occasionally scratching away dead skin. The water runs from the back of his head, falls over the first vertebra, hugs his muscles, and takes to the drain the upset memories of the dream.

It doesn’t really work, he remembers the cold tears and the black umbrellas and what unsettles him the most is the fact that he was grown and with Endou, holding his hands. It doesn’t work, but Shuuya tells himself that it does, even if the casket was empty and Endou was telling him to go to sleep, undertone voice.

When he's back in his room he unlocks the phone.

He types, _if you're awake come to the tower in twenty_ and after dressing in the most warm and dull tracksuit he owns he leaves his house.

No one is outside, Shuuya didn't check the time but he's sure it's closer to dawn than to sunset and the eerie silence helps in calming his nerves. He walks fast, at a certain point he’s sure he starts jogging up on the hillside to reach the overlook and when he gets there, breath short (again, Shuuya has a vague sense of déjà vu) Kidou is already there, glasses forgotten and a hoodie that would look out of place on him except that Shuuya has seen him cramming for exams in university so he’s familiar with the sight.

“Is this an existential crisis type of meeting? Because I think we should go somewhere warmer, at least,” he mutters, stuffing his hands inside his pockets.

“It’s more of a I would consider smoking three packs of cigarettes in one sitting kind of night,” Shuuya gets closer to him, they bump their shoulders as a greeting and it looks almost accidental but Kidou stands solid, even if he’s not looking at him.

“It’s a shame your sister stopped with that endeavour, we could both be smoking, now.”

“Troubles at work?”

“Nightmares,” Kidou gets closer to the railing, slumps his body forward while resting on it, contemplates the city with his composed gaze, Shuuya thinks were they both different people they could have fallen in love, but they’re too similar, and Kidou is not interested in that kind of thing, so they have this weird codependency, a radar that spikes up whenever the other is in distress.

“What about you?”

Shuuya takes place next to him, mirrors his position and lets out a watery breath.

“Nightmares, too,” he mutters, “with the complex addition of feelings.”

“Hate those.”

Shuuya hangs his head until it feels like it might fall over, a rope pulling him under, a glass ceiling pressing him down, he’s an adult who has re-built his reputation from ground zero and still struggles with admitting things to himself.

Kidou gets closer, huddles in with him like they’re sharing a secret, like there are people who might hear them even if they’re just standing in an abandoned place frequented only by those still struck by melancholic moods about the past.

“Are you going to tell me to do something about it?”

Kidou shifts his weight from one leg to the other, “Would it help?”

“I don’t know, everybody seems to be updated on my sentimental situation, it’s weird that you haven’t told me anything,” he lets his head fall on Kidou’s shoulder, “Even Fudou said to stop being miserable.”

“I’m well past being surprised by what Fudou says and does.”

“Still, Fudou.”

“I assume Kazemaru with him. Tobitaka? He's odd like that. Who else?”

“Aki, and also Natsumi, a bit indirectly, but yeah.”

“Well, if you want to wait for the whole team to come through, although I don’t think the advice is ever going to change.”

Shuuya feels sluggish, could probably fall asleep on Kidou’s shoulder, surrounded by the smell of the leave in conditioner he uses.

“Some days I think: might as well just hold him still and tell him, but– I get so overwhelmed, it feels like I’ve got so much to _do_.”

“And one day you’re going to run out of excuses,” Kidou says, but it’s not mean and Shuuya doesn’t take offence, he knows all he’s been doing these past months was procrastinating.

“I think– the marriage and everything else, I wasn’t even thinking about it, and now all I can do is– how do I–

Shuuya lets out a frustrated groan, it’s still composed by his standards, but he’s tired and the warmth from the shower is now seeping through the clothes leaving him in the cold late October night.

“Say something,” he begs Kidou, who is just holding him up, now, forehead nestled in the curve of his neck.

“Endou isn’t stupid,” he says, “Bit oblivious, sure, but your face contorts into this fond smile when you look at him, it’s difficult to miss.”

Shutting his eyes, Shuuya hisses through his nose, “So?”

His head is dislodged from its careful nest by Kidou shrugging, “So, he asked me to say something, too.”

A bloated, decaying sentiment creeps on him like a thief, breaking the windows and wedging itself inside his knees, he gets the urge to buckle and topple over the hill they’re standing on until Kidou pinches the back of his hand, not hard, but strongly enough that he shakes away from the need to vomit.

“What did you tell him?”

  
  
  


**X**

  
  
  


There is one feeling Shuuya doesn't know how to explain, its skeleton lies in the basic human curiosity, but it roots in different ways. It's there when he's reading a book, the second to last page of a chapter and his eye slips to the last line, quite unconsciously but he still does it willingly, ruining the surprise, the moment of completion.

It was also there when his father was talking about patients and illnesses with vague and medical terms, and later he would go and search for what ketosis was, how an eczema looked, what frostbite meant.

Sometimes it lingers in the most obtuse ways possible, like Shuuya could get a glimpse of the future if only he desired strongly enough. He feels it now, too, he's outside himself looking at the miniature shape of his pyjamas clad body trying to make sense of what little sanity he has left. Shuuya could play this game of pretend-to-know for a long while, he knows that because he has tried firsthand and it lasted for three years of high school, when boys are old enough to understand what affection _should_ look and what gender _should_ mean, and what _is wrong with you, that’s gay_.

Distractedly he asks himself why these things always occur to him whenever he’s in pyjamas.

“I love you,” says Endou, standing in front of his door, it’s an early morning of December, Shuuya looks at him with the door handle exchanging its coldness for the warmth of his hand.

 _I love you,_ he says, and Shuuya has several ideas in his head, out of which the most pressing one is trying to determine a rightful name for the current curiosity overwhelming his whole body, he has a feeling this is a different kind of _I love you_. He wants to close the door and reopen it and pretend that he didn’t look at the last line of the chapter he’s currently reading.

Endou is composed, his eyes are set and he has a sweater and a parka without the hood, denim pants and neon yellow running shoes that are disgusting and an insult to good taste. He has his hands in the pockets of his coat.

“I love you,” he repeats, even though Shuuya didn’t ask _what did you say_ or _can you please repeat_ , the only thing Shuuya did was raise his eyebrows and almost faint, his stomach is contracting painfully, like he’s trembling from the cold.

He opens his mouth, his lips are dry and it takes a considerable effort to separate them, pasty with sleep. Endou is still in front of him, there is a slow smile on his lips and it’s barely there but Shuuya has had practice, he knows what to look for.

“Let me in?”

He moves to the side, so that Endou can shuck his horrible, terrible shoes off and drape his parka over the back of his sofa and stand in the middle of his living room, Shuuya never paid attention but Endou’s slightly taller, it’s probably the wild tufts of hair or the fact that his spine is long and unfurls itself without any creak, or maybe it’s the fact that after months (years, if he really wants to be true to himself, something he started valuing more, after talking to Fudou, but he doesn’t want to think about Fudou, now) spent laying the crumbling cobblestones of this specific path, Endou is the one who took the first step.

“If you aren’t ready for–

Now, Shuuya needs to start talking, “Me?” he points at himself, at the jumper with bleach stains he uses to clean around the house, Endou looks like he’s trying to walk on broken glass as silently as possible.

“Well, I thought– since– it’d be best to wait after you, uhm,” he takes a deep breath, “I wanted to be sure you were okay first, with the fifth sector and, and everything.”

“What about Natsumi?”

“What about her?”

He looks confused, as if he wasn’t the one who almost married her, who broke up under mysterious circumstances that not even Kidou is privy of.

“I–,” Shuuya starts and, actually, _yeah, what about her_ , he asks, why does he care, Shuuya bites his bottom lip, still dry and exhales, collapsing on himself. It’s incredible how wrong he was and how everyone has been telling him that, but it takes Endou and bright morning confessions to make him believe that. Shuuya shakes his head and his hair, a bit damp because he washed it in the sink of his bathroom, sticks to his temples.

Endou steps closer, his socks are mismatched and Shuuya recognises the one on his left foot because he’s pretty sure it was his, before, and there’s a hole on the heel. Endou takes Shuuya’s hands in his, warms them, massages the blood flow back in, his thumbs press over the back, under the knuckles.

“I wanted to tell you first,” Shuuya mutters, looks at Endou’s toes wriggling in his socks, most of all he can feel him smile.

They spend a few second in silence, the water circulating in the modern, weird-looking radiators (Midorikawa called them _avant-garde_ when they showed Shuuya the apartment) makes a bubbling sound, but it could also be the green tea he drank in one gulp, before rushing to open the door to Endou, that is starting to revolt.

“Two weeks ago,” Endou doesn’t stop touching him, only now he moves to his wrists, pushing the sleeves of the jumper to his elbows, “I had a dream. You were there, at my mother’s funeral, and you were,” a short laugh, “you were holding my hand,” _like this_ , he wants to say, but it sounds preposterous even to him, “and we were both adults. And after I asked Kidou to meet at the tower and he told me you did the same thing.”

Endou is tracing the light, sun-bleached hairs on his arms, there is a mole in the middle of his forearm in low relief, he swipes his fingers twice over it for good measure. Shuuya just lets him.

“Yeah, I think we owe Kidou a lot.”

“He’s too patient.”

Endou smiles, he lets Shuuya’s arms fall but his hands find their way to his hips, that are too narrow to be harmonious but Endou doesn’t take in beauty like most people do, he’s got the hands of a hard worker, not the one of a critic.

Barely a whisper, “He really is.”

Shuuya’s breath is stuck in his throat, the tip of his nose feels incredibly cold and the muscles of his thigh clench without releasing.

"Are you okay, now?" Endou's eyes are crossed in his, Shuuya is sure he must be looking the same, he lets his body do the work for him, swaying a bit frantically and he hopes Endou doesn't care about years of repressed sentimentality because he's about to be the direct subject of the explosion of this unearthed, twelve year old bomb.

"I don't know," he decides to answer truthfully, there are still ugly feelings pestering his brain, reaching down the cerebellum and taking the highway to the intestines through the marrow of his spine.

He gets in these moods, sometimes, when he forces through everything while ignoring his needs and Kidou, and Midorikawa and Hiroto, and even Fubuki (who probably has visited all the therapists in Japan and could very well write a tourists guide completed with reviews) suggested names and addresses and Shuuya is not even halfway through, barely started, but _now_ doesn't feel like _okay_.

Endou grips his hips, always gentle but more firmly, and the way his fingers rest on the bones, toying with the hem of the jumper, awakes something in Shuuya that he didn't know he craved in the first place. He nods, because he probably understands, or rather he doesn't in the actual sense but Endou works on empathy, and often can't emotionally relate to what the people around him are going through but he'll always do his best, even if he can just skim the surface, to reach the bottom.

"Do you want to wait–

"If you don't kiss me I think I might get heartburn and then vomit, Endou."

He laughs, open mouthed and there they are, the wrinkles at the sides of his mouth and his eyes, he didn't expect him to be so blunt, but Shuuya is past trying to hold an ounce of respectability when Endou is concerned, especially if he decided that holding his hips and caressing his sides was something that needed to be done.

So, he kisses him. He starts from his left cheek, plants a big kiss, a bit wet but not gross, right over the cheekbone. Shuuya laughs, with him, and Endou looks like being able to hear his chuckles is like winning the Champions League.

He kisses where the bone dips and leaves spaces to cartilage and presses so hard that Shuuya feels his teeth poke through. Endou's hands are roaming more freely now, over his shoulder blades and they're dangerously bending backwards, but their legs intertwine and Shuuya only felt like this when standing in front of a crowd, waiting for the referee to blow the start of the match. The precarious concoction of nerves and adrenaline and the overall happiness of doing what you love with who you love.

Endou kisses the bridge of his nose, moves to the other cheek, Shuuya also moves his hands to hug him, mostly to grip at something solid.

"Endou," he warns, laughter stuck in his throat, because they've kissed each other's cheeks when they were younger and tenderness between boys wasn't a stigma, but he's starting to feel lightheaded.

He bites the plump of his right cheek and then trails down until finally they are kissing, and they are kissing, and they are kissing.

They don’t do anything besides stamping their lips together, it feels enough, for now. Endou tastes tangy, Shuuya knows he eats congee for breakfast, his hands rest on the nape of his neck tangling in his hair, still damp. Shuuya’s own fingers anchor themselves to Endou’s shoulder, feeling the soft fabric underneath.

Endou nudges his nose, leaves another kiss on his cupid bow and holds his cheeks and his hands are so wide that when he opens them, spanning his face, his thumbs almost completely cover Shuuya’s mouth. He smirks, it’s more the delighted look of a child who discovered a secret and now wants to say it to their bestfriend.

“You alway say something,” he begins, Shuuya wants to ask, because he’s used to saying a lot of things but Endou continues, “Let love burn, at its best,” he presses his thumbs and then they leave as Shuuya’s eyes open wide.

“You bastard,” Shuuya pinches his shoulders, the soft skin of his neck and Endou kisses him, “You’re not quoting poetry to me.”

Endou laughs on his mouth, “I got curious,” and there it is, again, the feeling that compels them to reach out, he’s forever grateful Endou has the courage to go with it, to present himself at six in the morning in front of Shuuya’s apartment with a metaphorical bunch of flowers.

He lets out a breath, and hugs him tighter, surprising Shuuya. Endou hides his forehead in his jumper and Shuuya can count the knots of his vertebrae.

“What do you want to do, now?” he asks, Shuuya needs to clear the insides of his brain, he wants to kiss Endou more, he wants to finish his breakfast, he wants to go back to bed with Endou, a lot of things involve Endou, except they both have work.

“I want to stay with you, a little bit more,” which in his ears sounds like a good compromise, Endou nods.

“I’ll come back after practice,” he kisses his shoulder, Shuuya wonders if there is anything as a person-overdose because he thinks, by the way his legs are still threatening to give under his weight, that he could be reaching levels of saturations never achieved before.

“Don’t be late.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> personally I think Camus would be glad I wrote this silly thing after remembering few lines from his essay on the absurde and suicide I read once in highschool, if u want to read it too just google The myth of Sisyphus pdf and u'll find it (although,, it's about suicide so beware) also the Yosano Akiko's collection of poems is called Tangled hair, you can read it on archive(dot)org [and thank u nicole for having the patience of a saint and for the helpful directions regarding japanese poetry, i am most indebted to you]
> 
> (you can talk to me on [tumblr](https://creamation.tumblr.com/) or [twitter ](https://twitter.com/mensmentis))


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